Page 33 of The Cursed Writer
Instantly, Cecily’s hand curled around her belly and Harry caught a flash of fear in her dark eyes. ‘I left there months ago. What do you want?’
‘Nothing, except to ask you a few questions,’ Harry reassured her. ‘I think we have an acquaintance in common. Or should I say, an enemy in common.’
For a moment, Cecily simply stared at her, then understanding dawned on her face. She let the sopping towel drop into the tub and straightened up with a wince. ‘Not here,’ she said, in a low voice, rubbing the small of her back. ‘My aunt doesn’t know the truth and I’d rather she didn’t find out.’
She dried her hands and reached behind to untie her apron. ‘I’m going for a walk, Aunt Joan,’ she called. ‘I won’t be long.’
Joan appeared from the other room, scowling. ‘Those towels won’t wash themselves. There’s another load arriving this afternoon.’
Cecily inclined her head. ‘I know. But my back is aching and I need some fresh air. This lady and I can take a stroll along the promenade while we talk.’
From the mulish expression on the older woman’s face, Harry knew she wanted to refuse. But then she relented. ‘Thirty minutes, no more.’
‘Yes, Aunt,’ Cecily said, and took a shapeless coat from behind the door.
It was a relief to be back outside, Harry thought as she took deep lungfuls of bracing salt-laced air, despite the foul odour that hung over Circus Street. The gaggle of children were still there, watching them. ‘This way,’ Cecily said, turning left and making for the end of the road. ‘It’s much nicer when you can see the sea.’
The wind was biting when they reached the seafront, whipping the grey-blue waves into prancing white horses. Harry wrapped her coat around herself more tightly as they made their way along the promenade, dodging other walkers and the few hardy tourists who had chosen December to sample what Brighton had to offer. She glanced across at Cecily, filled with wretchedness for her unfortunate situation. ‘Does your aunt work you very hard?’
The other woman glanced down at her hands, which were red and rough-skinned. ‘She has a living to make,’ she said. ‘I’m happy to help. It’s the least I can do after she took me in.’
‘She’s your mother’s sister – is that right?’
Cecily eyed her with surprise that bordered on alarm. ‘Yes, that’s right. But how could you know that? I thought you worked at the bank.’
‘I do,’ Harry said. ‘But I went to find you at your family home in Norland Square. Your mother told me you no longer lived there and your maid, Susanna, came after me to give me your address here. She sends her best wishes, incidentally.’
That coaxed a smile from Cecily. ‘She was always my favourite. I miss her sometimes, and the life I used to have.’
Harry pictured the smart rows of Norland Square, overlooking the private garden, and compared it to Circus Street. ‘I can imagine. How long is it since you left?’
She gazed out at the waves. ‘Around four months. It was August when I first arrived here and the weather was better. I liked being by the sea when the beaches were busy and the sun was shining.’
‘Did you know your aunt particularly well before you came?’
Cecily shook her head. ‘No, not well. I remember she used to visit us in London, when I was a child, but as you can tell, she and my mother have ended up with wildly different lives. Mother chose practicality over romance and married a banker, who did very well for himself. Whereas Joan fell in love with a sailor, who was killed in a U-boat attack during the war.’ She threw Harry a pensive look. ‘Mother used to say she never really recovered, although she did eventually marry a fisherman. We didn’t see her after that.’
Harry nodded. A fisherman’s wife would not fit in Norland Square. ‘But you knew where to find her.’
‘She used to write to my mother sometimes,’ Cecily said. ‘Usually asking for money. Mother hid the letters in a secret drawer in her bureau – Father would have been angry if he’d known she was still in touch with Joan and I don’t imagine she wanted him to know that she sent any money.’
The revelation surprised Harry. She’d been of the opinion that Mrs Earnshaw was a cold-hearted harridan who had thrown her only child from the house in her time of direst need. The fact that she had supported her sister financially softened her opinion, although only a little. ‘Why don’t you tell me what happened with Simeon Pemberton? I assume he is responsible for your condition.’
The mention of his name caused the other woman to glance sharply at Harry. ‘Do you really work at the bank? You’re not a private detective or a reporter for a newspaper, are you?’
The question gave Harry a moment’s pause, because if she was really honest, there were times when shewasa private detective. But she was not labouring on behalf of Sherlock Holmes now. ‘Yes, I really do work at the bank. I used to be Mr Pemberton’s personal assistant and now—’ She stopped speaking to decide how much information she wanted to share. ‘And now I work in another department.’
Cecily was not deceived. ‘You too,’ she said softly.
‘In a manner of speaking,’ Harry said. ‘But tell me what happened to you.’
She let out a laugh then, strange and harsh. ‘What happened to me is that I was a fool. I said yes when I should have said no and this—’ she waved a hand at her swollen belly ‘—is what it got me.’
Harry eyed her compassionately. ‘You’re not the first to make that mistake and you most certainly won’t be the last.’
‘No,’ Cecily said, glancing away in humiliation. ‘I’m sure you can imagine how it went. At first, it was just praise for my work – a well-typed letter, that kind of thing. I was flattered – he was such an important man; it meant a lot that he noticed. The other women used to say he had his eye on me, but I didn’t pay them any attention. I was only a lowly secretary, after all, and he had a whole department to manage, not to mention being a married man.’
Harry said nothing. It had occurred to her to wonder what the other secretaries had known about Simeon Pemberton, after he had attempted to seduce her. They had at least tried to warn Cecily, it seemed.
